trying to get it write

Throwback Thursday: poems from the past

Sunday, when you’re gone
I’m quiet all day long.
I move about in silence,
On the edge of the world.
I calculate where you must be by now.
Sunday, when you’re gone
I wake up late.
If your presence was ever drunkening,
This then, must be the hangover.
And when four hours have gone by,
I press my eyes closed
To picture your car
Pulling up before your house
And you climbing out of the car
With just a touch of melancholy
And a smile.
Sunday, when you’re gone.